


Roads to run away

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, Mild Language, Violence, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer knows Sam's belief in Dean is what holds him back. And Lucifer is tired of waiting for his vessel to say yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roads to run away

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note #1: The story is set in season 5. It contains vague hints of Sam/Lucifer, but nothing explicit.
> 
> Author's Note #2: Thank you to the always wonderful borgmama1of5 for the awesome beta, for all the help and advice. 
> 
> Author's Note #3: Written as an entry for this year's round of spn_reversebang. It was a pleasure working with the immensely talented [Litra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra). A huge thank you to her for all the patience and willingness to discuss ideas, for the inspiration. Art post [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3337136) \- drop by and let her know how absolutely gorgeous it is :)

The world’s ending.  
  
Again.  
  
Dean’s tired.  
  
Hollow, broken-down reflection of the righteous man.  
  
But Dean fights. It’s all he’s ever done. To fit in the outlines his Dad had carved out. A soldier, a brother, a son. He loses himself in a battle without an end, a family that he believed in too much. He enlisted for a war that claws at the tenuous strands of will, of sanity, of walls engulfed in flames, in blood smeared by his hands.  
  
Dean fights.  
  
For Sam.  For the world. To have peace at the end.  
  
 _Sammy._  
  
Dean doesn’t remember when he stopped believing that was enough.

 

~

 

Pitch black.  
  
Fear – liquefied, all around, endless, no light – tar that burns going down, crawls over skin, creeps with feathery light touch, long legs of a spider, taunting, until Sam wants to scream – and he does, long, soundless screams that just fuel the darkness – he swallows, falls, drowns, lives – there’s no purpose, no end, no faith, just him.  
  
And then there’s white. Blinding. Snow, clear, pure – flawless – and Sam has no choice but to muddy it, watch his footsteps leave prints smeared in blood – not crimson – black, dripping from his eyes, trailing behind him. The ground is hot, scalding – the soles of his feet have come off, bits of skin and flesh marking his path – and he doesn’t see, his eyes melted in hazel and green – he feels it inside of him – how it spreads, he breathes ash, not air – because it’s flames, he’s fire, he deserves it, he always did – he burns, again, but just enough to know he still lives.  
  
And there’s Dean.  
  
Hundreds of him.  
  
Bodies, strung, missing limbs – contorted, dangling in front of him. Mangled, gutted, ribcages sticking out – a feast – demons, laughter – blood trickling down their chin.  
  
Quiet.  
  
Dean doesn’t mock him – doesn’t say anything – shadows, just shadows that Sam wished into existence, that don’t look at him. Because they’d see – how weak, how helpless, how ready to give in he is – and  _Dean_ already knows,  _Dean_  already hates, pities him.  
  
Hell’s different for Sam.  
  
Hell’s all that could have been.  
  


 

~

 

  
The Impala is cold, unwelcoming. Empty.  
  
It’s been like that for some time.  
  
Classic Zeppelin blasts inside. The last comfort, the last lifeline to the man he was. But it’s not. Not really. Plant’s screams at the beginning of  _Immigrant Song_  are too much the same, dissolve into all the ones he’s caused.  
  
Dean drives.

 

 

~

 

Mirrors.  
  
“There’s more than one hell, Sam.”  
  
Lucifer’s voice is soft, easy, taunting.  
  
Sam balls his hands into fists, smashes into the mirror in front of him. He wants to escape. He’s wanted it for so long.  
  
Lucifer smiles. “Good, Sam.” Blood trickles down the broken shards. “See? It was always like that.”  
  
Sam feels fingers ghosting over his shoulder blades, tracing over the sensitive skin on his arms, and he shudders, because they’re warm, they’re wrong, they don’t hurt as much as he does.  
  
But Sam tears himself away. Turns. Another mirror. Distorted, bright picture – he’s tall, enormous, standing on a floor of smoke that lifts, dances around his hand. Sam smiles. Ugly, twisted, and it takes a second to remember he is not his reflection.  
  
“You like that?” Lucifer’s voice calls out, and Sam takes a few steps back, because he does. Dean’s death had built another Sam, one Sam had loved as much as the Sammy inside screamed and scratched at the walls. He was strong. “You do. Remember how it used to feel? The blood, boiling inside? How good it felt afterwards?” Hot puffs of breath tickle Sam’s ear and he jerks away, reaches around with trembling hands. “I understand, Sam. Like no one else does. You did good. You wanted good. But he didn’t see it like that.”  
  
Sam closes his eyes. This, this is the hardest part. Absolution in a voice that doesn’t carry that low, deep rasp.  
  
“You’re always the one who’s wrong, aren’t you, Sam?”  
  
And Lucifer talks, voice tearing, pulling, twisting at the tenuous strands holding him together, flaying, one truth at a time.  
  
“Look around.”  
  
Sam does. Shadows of a crowd, light playing around, and Sam, bright, colors of the sun, copper and yellow mingling in a hue that stands out. And then he blinks, and the reflection fades out, the broken silhouettes in the background come alive, looming, burying him in inky black.  
  
Words play on a loop in his mind.  
  
Dean’s. Dad’s.  
  
Not a brother, not a son, just the monster, the freak that should be put down.  
  
A reflection carved in clay, cracking at the surface, warped, without life.  
  
Frail, weak image that clings to a denim-clad leg, burdens, hides. A hand carding through his hair. The glint of a ring.  
  
Sam closes his eyes.  
  
It’s enough.

 

~

 

 

It had been hard.  
  
Months without Sam. There’d been a time when that was too much, when every moment apart etched another worry line.  
  
Not now.  
  
Dean cares.  
  
It’s ingrained into him. Because he was told, because that’s just who he is.  
  
But not as much as he used to be.  
  
Dean can’t deny those first few moments where all he felt was relief.

 

~

 

The ceiling’s grey, cracked, canvas that Sam fills with the thoughts in his mind, with dreams and nightmares that distort reality into a shapeless mound.  
  
Sam stares, like he did all this time.  
  
Ron enters, leaves a change of clothes, a bottle of water, and a tray of food on the ground. Just like he does every day.  
  
White.  
  
Today’s white, and Sam laughs, short, shrill, ugly.  
  
The dreams bleed into him, the wrongness sticks to his skin, and he fights against it as much as he can. But he can’t hide, not from himself, not in the darkest corners of his mind – this is who he is. It’s all he’s ever going to be. A pawn, a broken soldier, a freak.  
  
  


~

 

He begs.  
  
Dean’s hand tightens around his throat. Dean yells. Dean demands answers.  
  
He pants, fights for breath.  
  
Dean doesn’t care.  
  
The other takes a step towards Dean with intent.  
  
The Taurus in Dean’s left hand stays still as the bullet whips past, lodges itself in his head.  
  
He gasps, turns terrified eyes on Dean.  
  
Dean smiles, predator to his prey.  
  


 

~

 

“I’m sorry.”  
  
Ron’s a nice guy. Or would be, if Sam could overlook the whole kidnapping thing.  
  
“Today…it’s just- it’s the way it has to be.”  
  
He’s a good hunter.  
  
“You understand, right?”  
  
But not as good as Sam. Ron is the one that doesn’t get that the choice isn’t his.  
  
Sam nods purposelessly.  
  
Ron exits, and the metallic door closes with a screech.  
  
It’s countless chances Sam missed.  
  
Because he deserves it. Because he belongs here.  
  
And it doesn’t matter, not really. Not at the end.  
  
Sam leans back on the hard cot, stares sightlessly above.  
  
The ticking of the watch on his hand seems unbearably loud.  
  


~

 

Sam is dead.  
  
Dean had known that. He’d known it for a long time.  
  
But they taunt. They laugh. They say his mission has no purpose. The world is safe. The abomination is gone.  
  
It still doesn’t explain the rage, the grief, the helplessness he feels.  
  
He kills.  
  
He sinks further.  
  
Dean watches the bodies left behind.  
  
They look surprisingly human.  
  


~

 

 

Lucifer’s a welcome presence.  
  
Sam sees him, sometimes. Not his decaying former vessel. It’s a beautiful one. Alluring, eyes full of love, of pride. His voice is rough, but his words aren’t harsh. His words string together lies Sam wanted to hear for so long.  
  
And Sam believes.  
  
Momentarily Sam doesn’t feel alone. There aren’t the shadows of greater men hovering. Lucifer’s eyes shine in the dim light, bright blue-green, full of trust. Sam doesn’t feel alone – there’s someone who understands. And in that moment, Sam resents all the people who hadn’t seen him for who he is, only for what he’s not.  
  
It’s a second too long, a moment that leaves him guiltier after it passes.  
  
Sam grinds his palm on the rusty metal that sticks out of the edge of the cot.  
  
Warm. The blood is warm as it trickles down his fingers, onto the ground. Sam gets up. Slow, mindful of his clothes, of the white.  
  
He presses his palm on the ground. The crimson path he leaves behind is fresh, bright, contrasting with the dirty copper of all the other symbols.  
  
The Devil’s trap is the only one painted in inky black.  
  
Appropriate, Sam thinks, as he traces his fingers over the sigil, beads of crimson decorating it like a crown.  
  
  


~

 

“Hey, Bobby.”  
  
He’s the only one who keeps calling Dean.  
  
It takes a moment to remember there’s no one else to.  
  
Bobby asks him how he’s doing.  _Fine, good, all of the above._ It isn’t like there is any other answer to give, like there ever was. Bobby asks him what he found.  
  
“Nothing,” he lies.  
  
It’s smooth, it’s easier than it should be, but he has to, because Bobby would talk him out of what he’s doing. And he can’t afford that, because there’s a voice at the back of his mind that insists that he’d cave, that he’s too weak to hold out.  
  
It sounds suspiciously like Sam.  
  
Bobby says goodbye, tells him to take care of himself. To call.  
  
 _Right._  
  
Dean throws the phone out the window, hears it hit the ground with a satisfying crack.  
  


~

 

“You’re going crazy, Sam. You know that, right?”  
  
The voice is soft. Jessica, maybe. Or Mom.  
  
He whispers agreement to the dark. Sam doesn’t recognize it, as much as he tries. It’s deformed, wretched enough to see beyond the illusion, but good enough not to care for the price. The shadows dissolve, the voices mingle, and Sam loses himself between wishes, in the torture of kind green eyes.  
  
It feels better than his usual dreams.  
  


 

~

 

The white lines of the road stretch endlessly before his eyes, mocking display of all the powerlessness he feels inside.  
  
Dean isn’t enough.  
  
He’s failing. Again.  
  
It’s a familiar feeling, one that spreads like the warmth of the sun on his skin, seeping in, crawling deeper, till that’s all there is.  
  
But Dean is going to try.  
  
It’s his job.  
  


~

 

 

The view from the corner changes everything. The room is too big. Sam is too small.  
  
It’d always been the reverse. Sam had felt trapped inside – inside himself, and projected it to the outside, to the grey walls that welcomed the invitation, broke down just to build themselves again, closer, and closer, till Sam felt every breath ripped from himself like a scream, soundless and worthless in the void surrounding him.  
  
Now – it’s different.  
  
He sees. The same room. The same walls. But there’s a disassociation, a clean break that Sam hadn’t known existed until now.  
  
Lucifer takes Sam’s spot on the cot, head in his hands.  
  
He watches Sam. Not expectantly, not accusingly, not… _anything._  
  
Lucifer waits. He has time.  
  
But Sam doesn’t.  
  
Sam just smiles through the tears that he can’t stop, and closes his eyes.  
  
  


~

 

The world isn’t that different.  
  
Dulled around the edges, crimson, boiling from the inside – but that was always the way Dean had seen it. He’d known, too early, too much. It’s almost comforting, the same destruction, failure, loss that follows Dean around.  
  
But maybe he can do this right.  
  


~

 

Sam dreams of heaven, too, sometimes.  
  
But he dreams with his eyes open, lost in the memories.  
  
It’s the hood of the Impala, bright stars on midnight, endless sky.  
  
Beer, silence – Dean. Dean stares, and smiles, slow, crooked – open, because it’s not the real Dean – when Sam looks at him.  
  
Sam leans against the windshield – takes it all in. It feels right, it feels like he belongs, just like he does in the passenger seat, besides Dean – but it also feels wrong, fundamental, inherent, etched into him – he doesn’t deserve it.  
  
He comes back, every time. He returns to reality, transitions seamlessly – because he knows, it’s all just a wish.  
  
Lucifer’s voice is soft when he makes Sam promises he can’t keep.  
  


~

  
  
“How does it feel, Winchester?” the demon snarls. It’s a back alley. He’s trapped, a Devil’s trap drawn in chalk – Dean’s too good at this, and the demon knows it, by the look in his eyes. “Knowing you have only a couple hours left to live?”  
  
Dean grins. “Pretty damn good, actually.”  
  
It doesn’t take much. Just careful steps, Ruby’s knife in his hand – tall, blond, and demon should be toast in two seconds flat. But first, Dean needs to know. He needs to know if there’s a chance.  
  
“Talk.”  
  
The demon laughs. “Or what?”  
  
“You go bye-bye.”  
  
“You’ll kill me no matter what, Winchester. Ain’t stupid enough to believe I got information that’s worth anything close to that.”  
  
Well, he’s the brighter crayon in the box. It doesn’t change much.  
  
“No, but you have enough.”  
  
The man – demon – raises an eyebrow. “For what?”  
  
“For me not to show exactly how much Alastair taught me during the hell vacation a few years back.”  
  
His expression changes – he knows exactly what Dean’s talking about.  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
“Tell me where he is.”  
  
“Why? You can’t do anything.”  
  
Dean laughs, short, bitter. “Leave me to worry about that.”  
  
The demon shrugs, surprisingly satisfied. He grins. “Your funeral, pal.”  
  
But he talks.  
  
Dean takes all he needs, plunges the knife into the vessel’s heart.  
  


~

 

 

“Why are you doing this, Ron?” Sam asks.  
  
He doesn’t really need to hear the answer. But it makes the time pass. It seems like it had slowed down – endless seconds filling the emptiness, one breath at a time. The slow crawl of the minute hand mocks him every time he checks his watch – he waits, like he waited all this time. Sam knows what this is. Had, from the start.  
  
It’s a choice.  
  
One Sam still has.  
  
Ron’s a good decoy. But Sam is better at this game than Ron could ever hope to be. And the masks are falling. Ron doesn’t even bother to lie. He probably knows Sam had seen through it from day one.  
  
“They have my family. Wife, two kids. Six, and three.”  
  
Sam watches him leaning against the door frame, crossing his arms. “They’re already dead.” Sam says, matter of fact. Ron flinches, but doesn’t say a thing.  
  
“But you already knew that. So, why?”  
  
Ron smiles sadly.  
  
“You know the answer to that better than anyone.”  
  
Sam’s not sure he does. But he nods.  
  
“Because you have to believe.”  
  


~

 

Dean shouldn’t know about this.  
  
Dean should have bought into the illusion they had created. It was a good plan. Drive them apart. Sam leaves, checks out. Dean had been angry enough to not care, fucked up enough to believe.  
  
But they forgot one thing.  
  
There was only one thing Dean  _wanted_ to believe in.  
  


~

 

“You’re good, Sam, I have to admit.”  
  
There’s the slightest edge in Lucifer’s voice, the slightest glint in his eyes. He moves gracefully, easily – and Sam watches from his spot on the cot, mesmerized, how the image fragments right before his eyes. How much he constructed in his own broken mind.  
  
Lucifer sits on the edge of the bed, looks down on Sam, smiles proudly.  
  
“You believed it. Anything else, but that. You gave up on him.”  
  
Sam had. He’s not proud of it. But it wasn’t about Dean, as much as it was about himself, his worth measured in Dean’s eyes, in words thrown at him – in a brother that had always failed Dean. He didn’t deserve it, and he wished Dean would have seen it. Sooner.  Always. Lucifer brushes his fingers against Sam’s cheek, but Sam doesn’t flinch – hasn’t for a long time – he’s used to it.  
  
It’s gentle, knuckles tracing over his cheekbones, thumb stroking over his lips.  
  
It’s weakness. Pure, simple.  
  
It hadn’t been an act. So many times, he wanted to give in.  
  
“I gave you a chance, Sam. I picked today. You had time. You could have been the hero you wanted to be for so long. You could have saved all the people I’m going to kill. “  
  
He could have. Sam could have been good. Sam could have saved innocent people from hands that know no pity, no mercy in ripping them apart.  
  
But he didn’t. It’s all part of a bigger plan.  
  
Lucifer gets up, stands to leave. “But you didn’t. And now you force me to show you – why there is a need for this. You need to see how flawed your belief is. You strive to save this – but haven’t you ever questioned if it was worth it? Who are you fighting for, Sam? Humans? These – these creatures so vile, so imperfect, so repulsive?”  
  
He huffs out a small laugh. “Or your brother? You must have forgotten…he left you to rot in here.”  
  
Sam shakes his head. It’s not a truth. Dean hadn’t been told the whole story. But it doesn’t matter. Sam knows, this, better than anything.  
  
“All the more reason to prove it to him.”  
  
“So you’d sacrifice countless people just for…this? For this naïve ambition? Dean’s never going to look at you the way you want him to. You’re already tainted. Have been, long before me.”  
  
But Lucifer doesn’t understand. Can’t, really.  
  
It’s love, it’s family, it’s selfish, and selfless all at the same time – and it’s always Dean.  
  
The choice was always easy.  
  


~

 

The metallic door screeches when it opens – Dean’s left palm smears the blood on it. He thinks. He can’t feel. Dean doesn’t want to understand what this means.  
  
Because this is too much of a familiar feeling. He’s back in that abandoned cabin, watching over Sam, willing him to breathe.  
  
But he isn’t.  
  
Sam’s there. Sam’s on the other side of that door. Crumpled into a heap on the floor, white shirt stained crimson –  
  
Dean doesn’t even know when he crosses the distance to him. Sam’s alive. Breathing. The rhythmic cadence under his fingers washes over him like an absolution – and he knows, nothing would compare to this relief.  
  
Dean checks the room, Taurus drawn – but it’s useless. If there had been someone there, he’d be dead already. He turns his attention to Sam, whose eyelids flutter sluggishly for a few moments before he opens his eyes completely.  
  
“ _Sammy.”_  
  
It’s all he has. It’s a million things. And Sam seems to get it, because in the long seconds it takes to refocus, to come back to it, he grips Dean’s wrist – tight, reassuring.  
  
And then does something that surprises Dean.  
  
He smiles, shy dimples carved out in his cheeks. It’s just the barest tilt of his lips, but Dean sees right through it. Sam isn’t that good with words either. But he knows exactly how to tell Dean what he means.  
  
“Come on, princess.” Dean hoists him Sam up – and Sam whimpers in pain, but tries to shrug Dean off once he’s on his feet. Dean doesn’t let him – tightens his grip. “Left you with a little parting gift, huh?”  
  
Sam chuckles softly. It’s dark, it’s not him. “Lesson.”  
  
“Let me guess. Don’t say no to Satan?”  
  
Sam snorts. “Something like that. They elaborated quite a bit.”  
  
It’s instinctive.  _I’m going to rip their lungs out._ Some things can’t change, no matter how much easier it would be if they did. “They?”  
  
“Puppet number one and puppet number two.”  
  
Dean wants to ask. The blood. The bodies. But Sam doesn’t need it – he speaks before Dean has a chance to say anything.  
  
“I didn’t do it. Ron did.”  
  
Dean turns, arches an eyebrow questioningly. “Ron?”  
  
Sam points at a broken corpse near the wall, furthest from him. Dean stares for a few moments.  
  
“One day, I’m gonna want to hear this story.”  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything, just begins walking towards the exit. Dean is there to assist.  
  
“No, seriously. You have to tell me how you escaped a bunch of demons on steroids  _and_ managed to talk the devil out of deep-frying the planet.”  
  
Sam scoffs. “Didn’t manage to  _talk_ him out of anything, Dean. Just delayed the inevitable.”  
  
“Sunny way of putting it.”  
  
“He won’t stop. I’ll pay for it. For ruining this. Others will, since he can’t truly harm me. This was just the beginning.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, sunshine. One crisis at a time. Let’s get out of here first, and then we can deal with everything.”  
  
And Sam looks at him – disbelieving, hopeful. All the things the  _together_ he hadn’t slipped in there mean.  
  
Dean doesn’t have answers for him. They’re still broken. They’ll probably always be.  
  
But he’d proved it to himself – it was a choice for him. As much as it often wasn’t in his life – now, is just who he is. Who he wants to be.  
  
A brother.  
  
Because Dean hadn’t known what he would find. He wanted to believe so bad in Sam. But he didn’t trust, not completely. He’d been prepared for seeing Lucifer again.  
  
But Dean had come.  
  
It didn’t really matter – not as long as he found Sam.  
  
And he did.  
  
He found Sammy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Roads to run away [ART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337136) by [litra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra)




End file.
